Date: March 9, 2011
Venue: Feroz Shah Kotla, New Delhi
Match: Group B, ICC Cricket World Cup
Opponent: The Netherlands
The haze over New Delhi was a living thing—a sepia-tinted veil that hung low over the Feroz Shah Kotla, softening the harsh concrete edges of the stadium. It was a Wednesday, a working day, yet the stands were a vibrating mosaic of noise and colour. While the Kotla didn't possess the acoustic boom of the Wankhede or the electric charge of Eden Gardens, it had a character all its own: intimate, gritty, and fiercely partisan. The air smelled of popcorn, diesel fumes, and the metallic tang of high-tension excitement.
This was the final dress rehearsal before the looming titan-clash against South Africa in Nagpur. The opponent: The Netherlands. The Dutch, affectionately known as the "Oranje," were the underdogs, but in a World Cup where Ireland had already slain giants, no one was taking anything for granted.
In the middle, the coin spun. Peter Borren, the Dutch captain, called correctly.
"We'll have a bat," he said, his voice echoing slightly over the PA system. A ripple of surprise went through the crowd; most expected teams to chase under the lights due to the dew factor. But Borren was banking on putting runs on the board and letting the slow, low Kotla pitch do the rest.
In the Indian dressing room, MS Dhoni adjusted his gloves, his face unreadable. "Right then," he said, scanning the room. "We wanted to chase anyway to test the dew. Let's keep them under 200. Spin will play a part, but the pacers need to set the tone."
As the team jogged out, the roar was deafening. "In-di-a! In-di-a!" The sound wasn't just noise; it was physical pressure.
---
Zaheer Khan, the master craftsman of the Indian attack, took the new ball. His first over was a clinic in swing bowling—hooping the ball into the right-hander, then shaping it away. Eric Szwarczynski and Wesley Barresi looked tentative, prodding at ghosts.
In the commentary box, Ravi Shastri's booming baritone set the scene. "The atmosphere is electric here in the capital. Zaheer Khan with the new cherry, and he's getting it to talk early on. The Dutch have a mountain to climb against this attack."
It didn't take long. In the third over, Zaheer angled one across Szwarczynski, who fished at it. The edge flew low to slip, where Virat Kohli swallowed it. Netherlands 5/1.
---
Vikram Deva stood near the glass pane, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Beside him sat Sesikala, clutching her handbag as if it contained the nuclear codes. She wasn't watching the field; she was watching her son, a tiny figure in the distance stretching his hamstrings near the boundary rope.
"He looks dehydrated, Vikram," Sesikala murmured, her voice laced with worry. "Look at him wiping his face. It's too hot in Delhi. Did he drink enough water?"
"He's fine, Sesi," Vikram replied, though his eyes never left the pitch. "He's a professional athlete."
"Netherlands won the toss and batting?" Sameer asked, popping a piece of paneer into his mouth. "Are they crazy? Against our attack?"
"They want to put runs on the board before the dew comes," Arjun snapped, stopping his pacing. "But it doesn't matter. Sid is going to eat them alive on this track. It's slow, but he'll get skid."
On the field, the game began. When Zaheer removed Szwarczynski—caught comfortably by Kohli at slip—the corporate box erupted.
"One down!" Feroz yelled, high-fiving Sameer. "Now bring on the main man!"
---
It wasn't until the 9th over that MS Dhoni turned to his young sensation. The giant screen flashed: CHANGE OF BOWLING: SIDDANTH DEVA.
In the box, the mood shifted instantly. Sesikala leaned forward, pressing her hand against the glass. Vikram stopped breathing.
"Here we go," Arjun whispered. "Showtime."
On the field, Sidanth Deva marked his run-up.
Deva steamed in.
Ball 1: 144 kmph. Good length. Cooper defended nervously.
Ball 2: 142 kmph. Bouncer. Cooper ducked.
In the box, Vikram nodded approval. "Good," he muttered. "Push him back. Don't let him settle on the front foot."
"He's too fast for them, uncle!" Feroz grinned. "Look at Cooper's feet! They're stuck in cement!"
Ball 5: Deva ran in again. He saw Cooper anticipating the pace. In a split second, instinct took over. Deva rolled his fingers across the seam—a cutter.
The ball pitched on off-stump and gripped the surface. Cooper, already committed to a drive, was deceived by the lack of pace (128 kmph). He was through the shot too early. The ball sneaked through the gap between bat and pad.
CRASH.
The sound of the stumps rattling was drowned out by the roar of the Kotla crowd.
"YES!" Arjun screamed, jumping so high he nearly hit the ceiling of the corporate box. "The cutter! That's the magic ball!"
Vikram exhaled sharply, a rare smile cracking his stoic face. He clapped his hands—once, hard. "Beautiful line. Absolutely beautiful."
Sesikala closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer. "One wicket. Thank you, God. Keep him safe."
---
With the Netherlands reeling at 38/2, Ryan ten Doeschate walked in. He was the prize wicket—the Dutch giant who played county cricket and knew how to handle pressure.
The middle overs turned into a grind. Ten Doeschate ("Tendo") and Borren stabilized the ship, playing Deva cautiously and attacking the spinners. In the box, the tension returned.
"Why isn't he bowling full to Tendo?" Sameer asked, frustrated. "He's giving him too much respect."
"Tendo is a pro, Sameer," Vikram explained, his eyes narrowing. "If you bowl full, he drives. Siddanth is trying to cramp him for room. It's a patience game."
Dhoni brought Deva back for a second spell in the 28th over. The score was 110/4. Tendo was looking dangerous.
Deva, feeling the rhythm of the game, decided to change the angle. He went slightly wider of the crease. He banged the ball in short of a length, aiming for the top of the bat handle.
Tendo, trying to guide the ball down to third man for a single, was surprised by the steep bounce Deva extracted from the dead track. The ball rose on him, kissing the shoulder of the bat.
Yuvraj Singh at point dove like a panther, snatching the ball inches from the turf.
"OUT! HE'S GONE!"
In the corporate box, pandemonium broke loose. Arjun grabbed Feroz in a bear hug. Sameer was pounding the table.
"That bounce!" Arjun yelled, pointing at the replay on the TV. "That's not normal for Kotla! That's pure magic! Uncle, did you see the wrist snap?"
Vikram was beaming now, his chest swelling with pride. "He used his height well. Very smart cricket. That was the game-changing wicket."
Sesikala, seeing her husband smile, finally relaxed. She looked down at the field, where her son was high-fiving Yuvraj. "He looks happy," she said softly. "My boy looks happy."
---
The Dutch innings crumbled after Tendo's departure. The spinners, Piyush Chawla and Yuvraj, strangled the middle order. But Dhoni wanted to finish it quickly. He threw the ball back to Deva for the 45th over.
The score was 178/8. Mudassar Bukhari was at the crease, swinging wildly.
"Finish it, Sid," Arjun muttered, staring intently at the field. "Don't let the tail wag."
Deva didn't disappoint. He abandoned the cutters and subtle variations. He went for raw heat.
He ran in, the crowd clapping in rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The delivery was a searing inswinging yorker—clocking 146 kmph. Bukhari's bat came down a fraction of a second too late. The ball smashed into the base of the leg stump, uprooting it with violence.
"TIMBER!" Ravi Shastri bellowed on the commentary, his voice booming through the speakers in the box. "Sidanth Deva cleans him up! Too hot to handle! That is wicket number three!"
In the box, Sesikala wiped a tear from her eye. "Everyone is chanting his name, Vikram. Listen."
And indeed, the chant was shaking the glass of the corporate box. "DE-VA! DE-VA! DE-VA!"
Arjun, Sameer, and Feroz were leaning over the balcony railing now (having stepped out of the glass enclosure), waving their arms. Down on the field, Siddanth seemed to sense them. He looked up toward the corporate tier, spotting the familiar faces, and gave a small, tired wave.
---
The Netherlands were bowled out shortly after for 189 in 46.3 overs.
Bowling Figures for Sidanth Deva:
Overs: 8.3
Runs: 28
Wickets: 3
Economy: 3.29
As the players walked off, the corporate box was buzzing with energy. Waiters brought in fresh tea and snacks, but no one was interested in food anymore.
"Three wickets," Vikram said, finally sitting down, the adrenaline fading into a warm glow of satisfaction. "And more importantly, he didn't give away runs. He built pressure."
"He's going to be Man of the Match again, isn't he?" Sameer asked.
"Maybe," Arjun said, grinning. "Or maybe Yuvraj for his two wickets. But who cares? Sid is ready for South Africa. That's the real test. Steyn vs Deva."
Sesikala picked up her phone, which was buzzing incessantly with messages from relatives in Hyderabad. "Everyone wants to congratulate us," she laughed.
Vikram chuckled. "Let's not get carried away. But... he bowled well today."
---
"Target is only 190," Sameer said, shovelling a spoonful of biryani into his mouth. "Sehwag will finish this alone in 20 overs. We'll be back at the hotel by 9 PM."
"Don't jinx it, Sameer," Sesikala chided gently, though she was smiling. She was scrolling through her phone, showing Arjun a text message. "Look, Arjun. Siddanth's aunt just messaged. She saw the wickets on the internet."
Arjun grinned, leaning over. "Auntie, by tomorrow, the whole world will know him. But Sameer is right. This pitch is a belter under lights. Viru bhai is going to have fun."
Down on the field, the two Indian openers walked out to a deafening roar. Sachin Tendulkar, the god of the game, looked diminutive next to the broad-shouldered swagger of Virender Sehwag. This was Sehwag's home ground—Delhi was his kingdom. The crowd knew it, and the noise level spiked as he took his stance, twirling his bat with that characteristic nonchalance.
The chase began not with a whimper, but with a sonic boom.
The Dutch opening bowler, Mudassar Bukhari, ran in hoping for early swing. What he got was violence. Sehwag didn't care for sighters. The second ball was short and wide—Sehwag threw his hands at it, slashing it over point for four. The sound of the ball hitting the bat was like a gunshot.
"Classic Viru," Vikram muttered, nodding. "No footwork, just hand-eye coordination."
The next few overs were a blur of boundaries. Sehwag was in a mood to destroy. He treated the Dutch pacers with disdain, flicking them off his pads and driving them through the covers. By the end of the 4th over, India was already racing at 8 runs per over.
In the corporate box, the boys were on their feet. Feroz was mimicking Sehwag's uppercut every time the ball flew to the boundary. "He's in a hurry! Maybe he has a dinner reservation!"
Sachin, at the other end, was the perfect foil. He played with elegant precision, rotating the strike and letting the Nawab of Najafgarh take the spotlight. A straight drive from Sachin in the 6th over—punching the ball past the bowler without a hint of violence—drew a collective "Ooh" of appreciation from the crowd. It was poetry amidst the prose of Sehwag's hitting.
But the Sehwag show, as it often did, burned bright and fast.
In the 8th over, with the score rocketing to 69/0, Pieter Seelaar, the left-arm spinner, tossed one up. Sehwag's eyes lit up. He danced down the track, looking to launch it into the orbit of Mars. But the ball dipped slightly, turning away. Sehwag wasn't to the pitch of it. He sliced it high into the night sky.
The ball hung there for an eternity. The crowd went silent. Kadeer at extra cover settled under it and took the catch.
Wicket: Sehwag c Kadeer b Seelaar 39 (26 balls). India 69/1.
A collective groan echoed through the stadium, followed immediately by polite applause. Sehwag had done his job—a rapid-fire 27 that had killed any momentum the Dutch might have hoped for.
"Ah, typical Viru," Vikram sighed, shaking his head. "Live by the sword, die by the sword. He gets bored if he doesn't hit a boundary every over."
"At least he got us off to a flyer," Arjun defended his idol. "69 runs on the board already. The pressure is gone."
As Sehwag walked off, all eyes turned to the dressing room stairs. The crowd expected Deva or Virat Kohli, the young prince.
Instead, a burly figure with a high backlift walked out.
"Yusuf Pathan?" Sameer squinted at the screen. "At number three?"
"Why Yusuf?" Feroz asked, confused. "Where is Kohli? Where is Siddanth?"
Vikram smiled. "Smart move by Dhoni. Yusuf hasn't had much batting time in this tournament. If we need him in the knockouts, he needs runs under his belt. This is the perfect situation—low pressure, plenty of overs. Let him warm up."
Sesikala looked relieved. "Good. Let Siddanth rest. He bowled so much today. He doesn't need to bat."
---
Sachin Tendulkar was looking ominous. He had moved to 45 with a series of straight drives that belonged in the Louvre. He seemed set for a fifty, perhaps a hundred.
But cricket is a cruel leveller. In the 11th over (10.3), Pieter Seelaar, the left-arm spinner, tossed one up. Sachin leaned forward to drive, his footwork immaculate. But the ball dipped and turned sharply. It took the inside edge, bounced off his pad, and popped up.
The wicketkeeper, Barresi, didn't miss.
Wicket: S Tendulkar c Barresi b Seelaar 45 (47)
Score: India 82/2
The silence in the Kotla was instant and absolute. It was the specific silence reserved for the dismissal of Sachin Tendulkar.
"No!" Arjun slammed his hand on the railing. "He was playing so well! Just five runs for the fifty!"
"Spin is gripping," Vikram noted, his voice serious again. "This isn't as easy as it looks. 82 for 2. We need a partnership."
---
Out walked Mahendra Singh Dhoni. The crowd found its voice again. "Dho-ni! Dho-ni!"
He walked with that distinctive swagger—shoulders rolling, bat tucked under his arm. He punched gloves with Yusuf Pathan. The message was clear: Calm down. Let's finish this.
The partnership that followed was a study in contrast. Dhoni was the surgeon; Yusuf was the butcher.
Yusuf Pathan, known for his monstrous hitting, initially struggled to time the ball on the sluggish surface. He swung and missed twice against Seelaar. In the corporate box, the boys were getting restless.
"Yusuf is trying too hard," Sameer critiqued. "Just push it into the gaps!"
But then, Yusuf connected. A short ball from Cooper was pulled with such ferocity that the sound echoed like a gunshot. It smashed into the advertising boards at deep mid-wicket. Six.
"There it is!" Feroz cheered. "Muscle power!"
At the other end, Dhoni was busy constructing an innings. He worked the ball into the vacant spaces, turning ones into twos. He was testing the fitness of the Dutch fielders, running them ragged.
"Look at Dhoni run," Vikram pointed out to Arjun. "Watch his technique between the wickets. He runs the first one hard, puts pressure on the fielder."
The partnership flourished. They added 50 runs in quick time. India crossed 150. Yusuf, gaining confidence, launched another massive six over long-on—a monster hit that landed in the second tier.
But on 41, trying to finish the game in a hurry, Yusuf went for one big shot too many. He tried to clear long-off against Seelaar but didn't get to the pitch of the ball. The catch was taken near the rope.
Wicket: Y Pathan c Cooper b Seelaar 41 (30b)
Score: India 162/3
"Good knock," Vikram nodded. "He did his job. 41 runs, some confidence gained. That's exactly what the team needed."
---
With less than 30 runs needed, Yuvraj Singh strode out. He was in the form of his life, having already taken two wickets earlier in the day.
Dhoni, meanwhile, was eyeing a milestone. He was on 46.
"Come on MS, finish it with a six," Arjun pleaded.
Dhoni didn't hit a six, but he did something better. He waited for a short ball from Bukhari, swiveled, and pulled it behind square for a boundary.
MS Dhoni: 50 (Off 60 balls)*
The crowd applauded. It was a captain's knock—responsible, unhurried, and perfectly paced.
Yuvraj decided he didn't want to wait around. He faced three balls, blocked two, and then leaned into a cover drive that raced away for four.
In the 35th over, with just 2 runs needed, Dhoni tapped the ball to long-on. They jogged a single. The scores were level.
Yuvraj faced the next ball. A half-volley on leg stump. He flicked it effortlessly to fine leg for four.
India wins by 7 wickets.
Score: India 193/3 (34.2 overs)
The stadium erupted. Fireworks exploded from the roof of the Kotla stands. The DJ blasted "Chak De India."
---
In the corporate box, the attention shifted to the post-match presentation on the TV screens. The volume was turned up.
Ravi Shastri stood with the microphone, his voice booming. "A clinical performance by India. They march on. But first, let's have a word with the winning captain, MS Dhoni."
Dhoni looked relaxed, albeit sweaty.
Shastri: "MS, a comfortable win. The bowling set it up, didn't it?"
Dhoni: "Yes, definitely. We wanted to chase to see how the pitch behaves under lights. But the bowlers did the job in the afternoon. Zaheer was excellent, and the spinners choked them."
Shastri: "And the surprise promotion of Yusuf Pathan?"
Dhoni: "We have big games coming up. Yusuf hasn't batted much. We wanted to give him some time in the middle. Siddanth has been batting well, so we held him back. It's about keeping everyone ready."
The camera panned to the players. Siddanth Deva was seen laughing with Virat Kohli and Suresh Raina, a towel draped over his shoulders.
Shastri: "Ladies and Gentlemen, for his match-turning spell of 3 for 28 that broke the back of the Netherlands batting, the Man of the Match is... Siddanth Deva!"
A roar went up in the stadium, and an even bigger one in the corporate box.
"YES!" Arjun screamed, high-fiving everyone in sight, including a startled waiter. "Two Man of the Matches in one season! Are you kidding me?"
Sesikala beamed, her face glowing with pride. "Look at him," she whispered to Vikram. "He looks so good receiving the award."
On screen, Siddanth accepted the trophy.
Shastri: "Siddanth, another great outing. You seem to be enjoying this World Cup."
Siddanth: "Yes, Ravi bhai. The atmosphere is amazing. I just tried to stick to the plan. The pitch was slow, so I used the cutters and the bounce. Yuvi pa and Zak pa helped me a lot from mid-off."
Shastri: "Big game next. South Africa. Dale Steyn. Ready?"
Siddanth: (Smiling) "Can't wait."
---
As the presentation ended, the guests in the corporate box began to pack up. Vikram Deva stood by the window one last time, looking down at the empty pitch where his son had just conquered another nation.
"He's ready, Vikram," Sesikala said, standing beside him. "He's really ready."
Vikram adjusted his glasses. "South Africa will be different, Sesi. Steyn, Morkel, Kallis, AB de Villiers. That is the real test. Today was practice. Saturday... Saturday is war."
"He will handle it," Arjun said, joining them, his voice hoarse from cheering. "He's got the temperment, uncle. He's going to show Steyn who the real boss is."
Vikram smiled, patting Arjun on the back. "Let's hope so. Come, let's go. I think the 'Man of the Match' will be hungry when he gets back to the hotel.."
---
The team bus left the Feroz Shah Kotla amidst a sea of fans banging on the windows. Inside, Siddanth Deva sat in his usual seat, headphones on. He wasn't listening to music. He was visualizing.
He closed his eyes and saw the orange jersey of the Netherlands fade away, replaced by the green and gold of South Africa. He saw Dale Steyn running in, veins popping, eyes manic. He saw AB de Villiers shuffling across the crease.
The Dutch match was a confidence booster. The 3 wickets were good for the stats. But deep down, Siddanth knew the truth. The World Cup hadn't really started for him yet.
Nagpur was calling. The Proteas were waiting.